


More than Nothing

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Universe, Ciel is Confused, Dimension Travel, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Short One Shot, Watchdog Elizabeth, because why not, crossing canon with my fic, fanfic of my own fanfic, i guess?, inspired by a comment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 21:13:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13303341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: In response to EllieDulcie_xx's comment on Lady Phantomhive that asked if we'd "see Canon Ciel meet this version of his fiancee."It was too fun an idea not to write a little something in response.





	More than Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EllieDulcie_xx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieDulcie_xx/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Lady Phantomhive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10146506) by [Phoenix_of_Athena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena). 



> I wrote this real quick, and just for fun. It's a little rough, but I hope it pleases. :)

Ciel wakes up, head throbbing, on the cobblestones of a grimy alleyway.  Levering himself against one wall, he presses a hand against his forehead.  What could have happened, he thinks, squinting into the midday light shining in from the main street.  Sebastian is nowhere to be seen, and the last thing he remembers…is…going to sleep the night before?  Was it even the night before?  He has no idea.

Stumbling woozily out of the alley, he manages to hail a cab and directs the driver to his townhouse. As the carriage clatters through London, Ciel takes stock of himself.  He’s dressed in his usual cloak and top hat, over one of the suits that Nina had designed on her last visit.  Other than grime from the alley and a few slight scuffs, they are in fine condition.  His walking stick hadn’t been anywhere to be seen when he’d woken, but he can feel his pistol strapped against his back, and he has his coin purse in his pocket.  By the time the carriage rumbles to a stop in front of the familiar gates, he feels marginally more confident that he’ll be able to figure things out, although no less confused and disoriented.

Quickly dropping some coins into his driver’s hand, Ciel pushes open the iron gates and walks up to the front door.  He dearly hopes that Sebastain will answer the door as well as his questions.

But it isn’t Sebastian who pulls open the door to the townhouse.  It is…

“Paula?”

Paula  _stares_ at Ciel. This boy…can’t possibly be….

“Lady Elizabeth!” she shrieks, all thoughts of decorum erased by the overwhelming shock of seeing the dead returned to life in front of her.  All she knows is that Elizabeth _must_ come and see.

And Lizzie does, literally running down the stairs to see what has disturbed her maid so.  And Ciel staggers back in shock and even more overwhelming confusion.

Lizzie freezes at the foot of the stairs.  She whispers his name. (and another.)

And this is impossible; incomprehensible.  Her darling cousins have been dead for years.  Years.  She’s either been drugged and is hallucinating, or…

“Pa—Paula.  Come here,” Lizzie commands.  Because she’s scared, she’s so afraid—this boy, this well dressed young teen with an eye patch—he cannot be what he looks like.  He must a fake, a lie, a deception meant to unbalance the queen’s watchdog.

Paula quickly goes over to her lady’s side, and Ciel says, “Lizzie?” utterly bewildered.

“What are you doing here?  What’s wrong?  What’s happened?”

And he looks so confused, so earnest, that Elizabeth can feel herself weakening.

“Who…are you?” she says instead.  She demands—meant to demand, but her voice is too weak.

“Who…?” he says, and a wave of terror washes over his face.

“Lizzie, it’s me.  It’s Ciel.”

And she breaks, and gives in, because it’s him.  It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.  She walks over, slowly, mechanically, on ghostlike feet.  She cups his face in her hands and looks at him.  His deep, deep blue eyes are the same.  His hair is the same straight, slate gray.  His cheeks are flushed from the slightly chilly spring air, and she can feel his breath against her chin as he looks slightly up at her.  She is taller than him now, and the thought makes her want to laugh (it makes her want to cry).  She is older, and taller, especially in her heels, and she has everything that belongs to him.

“Lizzie…?”

“Ciel.  You’re home,” she says. Her voice breaks. 

“I—I’m home,” he says, and her hands drop from his cheeks as she flings her arms around him.

“But I can’t have been gone that long,” he says, his hands light on her shoulders, “What have I missed, what happened?”

“Not long?” she chokes out, her voice clogged with tears, “Not long?  Three _years_ , Ciel!  Three.  Thr—three yea-rs.  You were _dead_.”

He goes stiff against her, and pushes away.  His eyes rove as desperately over her face as hers had over his only moments ago.

“Three _years_? How? What happened?”

Unable to keep away, her hand finds his, and clutches.

She explains.  It all falls out, tumbling from her trembling lips.  From the fire at the mansion, to her ascension to the queens watchdog, to now.  And Ciel looks more stricken, more bewildered, than ever.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“I know,” she whispers, “come inside.”

He follows after her, his mind racing, tumbling, fumbling through her words.  Everything she’s told him is impossible.  But this is Lizzie.  And as he follows her up to the sitting room, he sees Mey-Rin standing against the railing.  She’s better dressed than he’s seen her, wears no glasses, and looks at him without recognition. 

And soon, he will have no choice but to believe, as the Midfords race to the city upon receiving Lizzie’s telegram.  Edward, from Weston, arrives first, and pulls him into an embrace more quickly and easily than his sister.  The Marquis and Marchioness stare wordlessly, and Tanaka, by their sides, looking more frail than he has since the hospital, trembles in shock and looks at him like a ghost.

So yes, he believes.  He believes, even as he examines the world around him in horror, because…here…he is nothing.  Has nothing.  He is trapped, away from his revenge, his manor, his servants and accomplishments.  Away from his demon. 

If he stayed here, he might live.  He might be able to allow himself to live.

But…that isn’t what he wants.  That isn’t what he _chose_.   Here, he is trapped, and powerless; a child, dependent on others, and the thought makes him _sick_. 

He wants to, needs to, get home.  He will always turn his back from heaven and walk into hell, if that’s what it takes. 

It only takes a month for him slip his supervision, and make his way further into the city, to a place he never thought he’d go again.

He stands at the door, and feels a shiver down his spine.

“Are you in, Undertaker?”


End file.
